


Tongue Tied

by AnonBlueberry (hippydeath)



Series: Twit Fics [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippydeath/pseuds/AnonBlueberry
Summary: Jaskier does this thing, with his tongue, and it's not at all distracting. Honestly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Twit Fics [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780849
Comments: 6
Kudos: 142





	Tongue Tied

**Author's Note:**

> This is another twitter prompt fic, for the prompt "tongue" because Joey Batey does that thing with his tongue, and I sure as hell find it distracting.

It's distracting, is what it is.

And a Witcher shouldn't be so easily distracted.

It is fine though, only happens when they're at camp or in town, or sometimes when they're walking. So its fine, and most of the time, it's a split second distraction before Geralt focuses on something else. Nothing to worry about.

They're stopped in a clearing for the night, Geralt's fiddling with the wrapping on one of his swords, and Jaskier is quiet. So quiet in fact that Geralt looks up, just to see if he's alright, and finds him sat, eyes squinting at the pegs of his lute and his tongue just poking out his mouth, as he frequently does when he's concentrating.

It sends a strange, weird feeling through Geralt, something he thinks might be fondness. The moment breaks as one of the strings does, snapping into Jaskier's face, and Geralt can't help but snigger.

"Fuck," Jaskier swears as he flinches away, then realises Geralt is laughing at him, "Yes, fine, we don't all have your witchery reflexes. Shit." He rubs his face where the string caught him, and Geralt leans over, moves his hand away and looks for a moment.

"No blood, you'll be fine."

And that's it.

For then.

It keeps happening, and Geralt keeps noticing it more and more. The simplest things that Jaskier sets himself to do, and he’ll be sat there, tongue just sticking between his lips as he concentrates, whether it’s on something he’s working out on the lute, writing something down, fastening his fucking boots or trying to decide what he wants to drink (alcohol, really, is there that much of a difference other than how fast it gets you drunk?) and Geralt keeps noticing that warm fondness, as well as, sometimes, the faint urge to lean forwards and see what would happen if he broke that concentration with a kiss (he’s not blind, he knows Jaskier is attractive, he knows Jaskier has been throwing himself at him, he’s just, not quite sure it’s the sensible idea)

“Geralt, what the fuck are you staring at? Have I got something on my face, gods, did you get blood on me again, I swear,” Jaskier’s rant knocks him out of his daydream, and he realises that he had tipped slightly too close.

“No, just. Nothing.” He huffs, and gets up to go to the bar, who cares what Jaskier actually wants to drink.

They’re both covered in mud. Slime. Ooze. Jaskier keeps coming up with new ways to describe it. Roach, thankfully, is free of mud. As is most of their gear, because Roach was tied up on the road while they went to try and investigate a weird noise that Jaskier had heard. Which turned out to be a fallen wasp nest, because Jaskier is an idiot and Geralt encourages his idiocy, and to get away from the fallen nest of angry insects, they ended up in a massive puddle of mud. Which is now drying all over them, having seeped into their boots and clothes and the scabbards of Geralt’s swords.

They had, thankfully, found an inn, but while the keeper had promised them a bath, they still had to get out of the partially dried, mud caked clothes that they were in.

With a weary, over dramatic sigh, Jaskier had stripped to his smalls and dumped everything in a heap; the velvet doublet wasn’t likely to survive the cleaning unless he was very lucky, and his boots were going to need re-lacing, but everything else would scrub up. And Geralt was currently stuck in his armour, because mud and water meant swollen leather around the buckles.

“Will you just,” Geralt tries to duck away from him, because he can get his own armour off, but Jaskier is determined, and has smaller, quicker hands than Geralt, and soon, Geralt is stuck, staring down as Jaskier’s tongue pokes out his mouth again as he wriggles a strap through a buckle, and Geralt just gives up.

They’re cold and wet and filthy, but there’s barely any distance for him to duck down and press his lips to Jaskier’s. It’s not a good kiss, and Jaskier makes a sad little noise as he’s interrupted from what he was doing, until he catches up to what he is doing now, and then it’s all interrupted by banging on the door heralding the bath.

“That,” Jaskier’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, “we’re coming back to that? Yes?”

And Geralt can only nod.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/anon_blueberry) or [Tumblr](https://anonymousblueberry.tumblr.com/), I take prompts and have dumb opinions about food!


End file.
